


it's not enough

by onefootonego (startingXI)



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Multi, TW: Blood, TW: Violence, tw: discussion of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 09:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15191588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startingXI/pseuds/onefootonego
Summary: your impending death is, in fact, the statistically predicted outcome of the work you do for the department of extranormal operations.





	it's not enough

**Author's Note:**

> this is 90% lucy-centered angst, 7% kara and lucy being friends and 3% director sanvers.

the heels of your hands are bleeding. you know this because blood is trailing down your fingertips and seeping into the concrete floor. the floor, your hands, the wind whipping it’s way through the walls, it’s all so cold. you’re so 

_cold._

you wonder if that’s because of blood loss. you know the heels of your hands are bleeding, but there’s a wound in your shoulder that bleeds more, hurts more. you are bruised and battered and even in the half-light of the total darkness you can see the shades of black and blue your arms, and the rest of you, is already turning. tears sting in your eyes, not from pain, not from wounds, 

but from the utter exhaustion and the truest depth of emotions that are gripping you now that death is finally coming. 

you are sure that death is coming. 

the void would be a sweet release from the throbbing in your skull and the rippling shockwaves of agony that center around your shoulder. every breath, every time you so much as look to the other side of your prison, your shoulder seizes and complains. 

you sob, ragged and lost into the darkness. your tears are loud amongst the quiet of wherever you are. 

wherever you are. 

you are in your grave - a room amongst rooms in a broken place. 

*

the fact of it all is, 

no one knows where you are. 

your impending death is, in fact, the statistically predicted outcome of the work you do for the department of extranormal operations. you, somehow, carry the title of 

_director_

and spend most of your working hours from within the confines of the desert base, safely tucked away from the metropolis target that is national city. however that never seems to stop trouble from finding you, from picking you out amongst the masses. 

and god, you’re in trouble. 

*

distant bootsteps signal the return of the mastermind behind your untimely demise. a masked man with the build of a navy seal and the moral compass of a rattlesnake. he is, as ever, clad in black. black boots, black tactical pants, loose-fitting black t-shirt tucked in neatly and, best of all, black balaclava covering his face. 

such a simple item and yet for the long hours before you earned a gunshot to the shoulder, it had given you hope. hope of survival. 

a fools wish really.

there is no surviving this, that much you know, that much you have learned. 

there is only enduring until your suffering ends. 

it’s unusually macabre of you, to be settled with such thoughts as your only company. the present reminds you of your past. of long nights in the afghan desert, wondering if the next bullet had your name on it. 

that was a different time, you think. a time of odds that worsened by the day - but at least you were not alone. you had others who shared the desperate hope to make it home alive. in this present you are abandoned with naught but your thoughts for company. 

*

in your mind, you call the bastard standing in front of you michael, if for no other reason than giving him a name makes him more human, and humans are beatable. 

“you know,” michael says, his southern accent strong, “i figured there would have been a bit more trouble over you disappearing.”

you say nothing. 

“no one’s even looking.” 

you say nothing still. 

“i could kill you now.” he says, and there’s a flicker of movement as he pulls a gun from the holster at his side. 

he levels the barrel with your head and you look up at him. 

you are unflinching in the knowledge that michael has killed before. you are aware of the fact that for him, killing you would likely not weaken his subconscious or his mettle. you are aware of the fact that soon enough, 

when michael is finished with whatever game he is playing with the people you call your co-workers, your friends, 

your family - 

you are aware that you are going to die. 

“that doesn’t upset you?” michael presses, and you can hear the smile in his voice “that no one even cares?” 

now, you suspect that in those words, a lie is carried. you think it has nothing to do with how much anyone in your life cares - and more with the fact that there is, invariably, something worth caring more for, than you. which makes situations like this tricky, where your life hangs in the balance against, 

well, 

you’re no expert but you can assume michael carries some level of bomb making skills, and you figure you can assume that he’s set up a nice little explosion somewhere public, some exposed nerve in the heart of the city. you figure maybe there’s a countdown, a timer, 

your life against the lives of many. 

so no, you think, it isn’t that no one cares. 

[oh you know people care. you know maggie and alex are in love with you. you know they’ve been looking for you, but you also know that decisions must be made when lives are hang in the balance] 

it’s that no one cares enough. 

*

michael is gone, you are still bleeding and you’re bored. 

it’s the last of those three that right now carries the most offense. 

here you are, restrained to a wall by a length of chain as thick as your forearm and somehow, with death creeping ever closer, 

you’re bored. 

is it that you want dying to hurry up? 

or is it that being left with your own thoughts for this long is starting to jade you? 

it could be both, it could be neither. at this point you’re not sure and nor do you care enough to keep thinking about it. 

all you know is, 

you’re in pain. you’re alone, and neither of those things are going to change before you die. 

*

by the time the sun starts rising, the blood on your arm and down your chest has dried. which, you decide, is infinitely worse than active bleeding. mostly because of the itching. 

it becomes an endless cycle: 

itch, scratch, start bleeding, leave alone, itch, scratch, start bleeding, leave alone, itch - 

and on, and on, and on. 

*

michael enters the room for the last time carrying a box. 

or, not a box, 

a bomb. a bomb held in a box with a timer taped to the top. glowing red numbers that tick ever downwards. 

“it’s a shame director lane,” michael says with the air of someone whose baseball game got rained out “i thought you deo folk would be more fun.” 

these are the first words you say to him in over two days - 

“fuck you.” 

*

according to the numbers you have three minutes left to live. 

one hundred and eight seconds and then, finally, 

it’s all over. 

there’s no longer consideration of escape - not after the first six hours you spent trying to loosen the chain, trying to pry it from the wall, trying to see if you could break your ankle and slip through the cuff that way. all you had succeeded in was getting yourself shot in the shoulder and realising that escape was not an option. 

so here you are. 

*

with a little over two minutes until whatever’s in the box goes boom,

you get sentimental. 

the tears from hours and hours ago spring forth, anew and you are left with the soul shattering realisation that those people who mean the most to you, 

are not going to get here in time. 

and even if they did, it’s a certain death for anyone who gets near. you only know two people in this dimension with the speed and the miscellaneous skills to extract you from this hell-hole - and last you hear clark was battling some big bad in gotham with batman. which leaves kara, 

kara who, the last you saw her was curled up on your couch, powerless. 

so here you are, 

alone. 

with sixty seconds to live. 

*

thirty seconds. 

you think of the first time you kissed maggie, right there in the coffeeshop after your first date. 

you think of the first time the pair of you took alex to bed. 

you think of your girls. 

*

twenty. 

you’re clinging to the happiest memories you can find, as if their mere existence will slow the passage of time. 

*

ten. 

your knees are pulled to your chest. your chin is planted atop your kneecaps and your arms are wrapped around you shins. 

nine. 

your eyes are closed. 

eight. 

you will not watch the clock. 

seven. 

no, you will think of maggie and alex and kara and lois and james and j’onn and with their memories, 

you will not die alone. 

si- 

there is a shattering sound from your right and there is a violent explosion of dust and debris as the wall is displaced clear through the other exterior wall. 

there is a flurry of movement and noise and you find yourself on your back, in a world of hurt with a very solid, very frantic person laying on top of you. 

“i’ve got you.” 

supergirl. 

you barely dare believe that kara is here. here with herself thrown over you, her cape covering you both. here as the timer runs itself out and, with breathtaking power, 

the building around you explodes. 

it shatters. 

you are falling and flying and burning and - 

and - 

and. 

*

you are aware that time is passing. 

you are aware that at least distantly, you have a body. 

you are aware of nothing else. 

*

what you truly first acknowledge in what must be the afterlife, is a hand in yours. you don’t know how you process that the weight you feel distally to the center of you is a hand. you don’t know how you surmise that the mystery hand is holding your hand. all you know is when you squeeze the hand in yours, it feels good. affirming. life affirming. 

*

you realise you are, in fact, not dead when you open your eyes and see the familiar surroundings of the department of extranormal operations. 

it’s either you’re not dead, or the afterlife is an eternity of work. the latter would be somewhat of a disappointment you decide. 

not that you don’t love work and all but, 

it is what _maybe_ got you killed. 

*

work did not get you killed. 

work injured you. 

work has given you some great new scars, but, 

work has not killed you. 

[yet.] 

*

it is alex who is in the room the first time you regain consciousness for long enough to speak hoarse words on a dry throat. 

your first words to her are broken, interrupted by fits of coughing, but the sum total of what you were trying to say amounted to - 

“am i dead?” 

the sum total of alex’s response, broken by tears of relief is, 

“no, no you’re not dead.” 

you are relieved. 

*

maggie comes all but running into the room. you’re unsure how she was told of your awakening, or if she developed some other sense in your absence but - 

she’s got one arm in a cast and is sporting a black eye. 

“what,” you start “what happened?” you force out after the smallest sip of water alex will let you get away with. 

“nothing,” maggie says, her words soft. 

you look at her - yes you nearly died but you are not an idiot. 

“knife fight.” maggie relents “you should see the other guy.” 

“who?” you push, 

did they catch him? 

did they catch the man who so very nearly killed you? 

“his name was darrius hammal.” alex says “former navy seal and blackops.” 

michael. 

“we got him.” maggie says. 

you want to see his face. 

you want to see the monster unmasked. 

more than that, you want to hold maggies hand. you want alex as close as possible.

you want to exist in this moment for as long as possible. 

*

you spend the next twenty-four hours drifting in and out of consciousness. awakening long enough to be assured that you’re safe, that you’re alive.   
it’s exhausting, nearly dying. 

*

the first time you see kara in the wake of everything, you are standing. you are standing on shaking legs even though you know full well that you’re not supposed to be doing this. there are doctors orders somewhere that insist on bedrest and assistance for everything from sitting upright to showering. you are ignoring those orders because you are not nearly as helpless as they would suggest and - 

“don’t let maggie and alex catch you standing up.” comes a voice from the door. 

you jump, turning to see kara standing there. the movement causes a spasm of pain and quicker than light, kara is standing next to you, an arm wrapped around your waist. 

“thanks.” you say through gritted teeth “you won’t tell?” 

“never.” kara smiles. 

the silence falls and it’s comfortable, kara supporting you and you thinking of how you can best say thank you for what she did. 

“how,” you start “how did you find me?” you ask the question whilst looking at the floor, it’s somehow easier that way. 

“it wasn’t hard,” kara says, her voice soft “once i got my powers back.” she adds, and her voice wavers “i thought i would be too late.” 

she nearly was, 

but you don’t say that. 

“you saved me.” is what you say instead. 

“you sound surprised.” 

you can feel kara looking at you, curious. 

“i was, am.” you say quietly. this is not the time you expected to be baring this truth but, “i thought i was going to die there. i thought,” you swallow hard “it was just me.” you say. 

“just you?” 

“nevermind.” you say, sitting down “it’s nothing.” 

kara steps away, giving you space, but she keeps talking “did you think we wouldn’t try and find you?” 

“it’s not that,” you start, even though at the heart of it, 

it is exactly that, but 

“it’s,” you search for the right words, the right way to phrase this “you’re you and there are so many people that need your help and he, darrius, he had bomb and i-” you shake your head “there had to be people who needed saving more than me.” 

is what you settle on. 

of all the answers you expect from kara, it is a firm 

“no, there wasn’t.” 

that throws you the most. 

you expected a speech on the value of family. you did not expect kara to continue on with “when that bomb went off there was an accident on the highway. a motorcycle clipped a car. no one was dying. there was a fire at a elementary school but the fire department was on-scene and all the kids and staff were safely evacuated - including the first grade class hamster named arthur. one person was being held at gunpoint in a corner store robbery by a man who just needed to be able to afford food for his kids. and one person was going to be blown up.” pause, she looks over at you, “who would you choose to save?” 

you swallow hard. 

“and even if there had been someone who was dying, who was in more danger-” kara steps forward, into your line of sight “if i can help it, i’m not just going to let you die. you’re too important to me.” 

you’re not crying but, 

those words mean a lot. more than you care to explain in this moment so, after a beat “could you help me walk to the bathroom?” 

kara breaks into a smile, moving a step closer again and wrapping her arm around your waist 

“of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> so, i tagged this as director sanvers even though the actual interactions the trio have are limited. that said, the relationship itself is important in the way it sits in lucy's mind and influences how she considers her possible near death. i'm not sure if it's tagged inappropriately but give me a shout if it is. 
> 
> this story is inspired by the second comment on [this post](https://4beit.tumblr.com/post/175570386797/bladeddarkness-this-was-my-favorite-thing-ever). i have **a lot** of feelings around lucy lane, and apparently this is how i address them. 
> 
> third, feel free to leave a comment below, drop me a kudo or come shout about how the world is on fire over at [4beit](https://4beit.tumblr.com/)


End file.
